A Dark Mark Wouldn't Match her Pink Cardie
by GIRL IN STORY
Summary: "I thought she was making you do lines?" said McGonagall. "She is, yeah. But she didn't have me use ink," he said. "I am not Professor Trelawney," she said. "And despite that fact, I am still not psychic. You will have to use your words." OotP. No pairings.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is set during _Harry Potter and the __Order of the Phoenix_, sometime after Chapter 29: Careers Advice. It's my first Harry Potter fanfiction.

* * *

"Potter, a word please."

Harry turned to see Professor McGonagall waving him towards her emptying classroom. He heard one of the exiting students say, "My toadstool still had warts. Do you think she'll dock points for that?" Harry waded his way through the second years towards the Transfiguration classroom, trying to decide what he was in trouble for this time. Fred and George's fireworks display? Contacting Sirius? Dumbledore's Army? It was probably, he realized, with a cold hard knot in his throat that felt something like swallowing Gillyweed, because it was his fault that Dumbledore had been forced to flee the school.

"I'm sorry, Professor McGonagall. We didn't set out to break school rules, and it wasn't even a rule when we started. We only wanted to-" he broke off, eyeing McGonagall's bemused expression. "Er, what was this in reference to, Professor?"

"Guilty conscience, Potter?"

He flinched at that. Of course he had a guilty conscience. Hogwart's last and best line of defense was gone, all because of him. But he was still grateful to McGonagall for pretending the DA didn't exist. With Dumbledore in hiding, Harry's little line of defense would have to do.

Harry forced a laugh. "Just my idea of a joke, because, of course, I would never break... school... rules. I'll sit down, now, shall I?"

McGonagall sat at her desk, and Harry fell into the seat opposite her.

"I wish to discuss your careers appointment."

"Is it about my OWLs? I meant to ask Snape to tutor me a bit in potions, but I haven't quite gotten around to it, because I was waiting for him to be in a good mood, and, well... it's Snape."

McGonagall looked as though she was trying to suppress a smile. "_Professor_ Snape, Harry, and that's not what I wanted to speak with you about. I see no reason you can't become an Auror if you apply yourself a little harder in your weaker subjects. I simply wished to ask you if you had any questions for me about your chosen career path?"

Harry blinked. "You asked me that during the appointment. Oh, I see. You mean do I have any questions I don't want to ask in front of Umbridge. No, I wasn't holding anything back. I figure even she couldn't find a way to give me detention for saying I want to work for the Ministry. Though I wouldn't put it past her to try."

McGonagall offered him the tartan biscuits tin a bit absently, not seeming to realize it was empty. She seemed to be struggling with herself for a moment.

Suddenly, she stood, and moved to the classroom door, shutting it firmly, before coming back to stand in front of Harry. He felt rather at a disadvantage, sitting while she was standing, plus it meant he'd be speaking to her naval. He quickly stood.

"In strictest confidence, Potter, the other professors and myself have been on the lookout for a way to get rid of Umbridge once and for all."

It sounded a bit like his Transfiguration professor was suggesting murder, but Harry was sure he must've gotten the wrong end of the wand. "Er, what do you mean by that, Professor?"

She gave him a sharp look. "Umbridge is not a Death Eater, Potter."

He noticed she didn't called her Professor Umbridge.

"Probably just because a Dark Mark wouldn't match her pink cardie," he said, momentarily entertaining the mental image of Umbridge insisting Voldemort give her a kitten instead of a snake.

"She works for the Ministry. She supports Fudge because she knows he will, in turn, support her. But if she does something that Fudge cannot be seen, publicly, to stand behind, then he would be forced to dismiss her."

"Does something like what?" Harry couldn't help thinking that there didn't seem to be much Fudge wouldn't stand behind these days, besides him, of course.

"I trust you remember Professor Moody- well, the imposter Professor Moody's punishment of Draco Malfoy last year."

"Sounds a bit familiar, yeah." Harry tried not to grin and failed miserably. Then something occurred to him, and the smile vanished from his face. He glanced down at his hand, which had still not fully healed since his last detention with Umbridge. He'd taken to keeping it wrapped in a handkerchief at all times, partly to hide the cuts, partly to discourage the pitying glances he got from Ron and Hermione, and partly because the wounds were still weeping gently.

He'd told Ron and Hermione that he hadn't gone to McGonagall because she didn't have the power to stop Umbridge. Truthfully, it was because he was afraid she already knew. That would be much harder to bear than a bit of blood.

"Er, Professor?"

"Do you know something, Potter?" McGonagall asked, almost eagerly.

"I think I might. I mean, it's not transfiguring a student," he hurried to add. "But well, you know I've been doing detentions with Umbridge."

"I do," she said sternly. He wondered if this had been a bad idea, but he pressed on anyway.

"Well, her punishments are maybe a bit odd for Hogwarts. I mean, I imagine Filch would probably approve, but..." he trailed off, unsure how to proceed.

"I thought she was making you do lines?" said McGonagall.

"She is, yeah. But she didn't have me use ink," he said.

"I am not Professor Trelawney," she said. "And despite that fact, I am _still_ not psychic. You will have to use your words."

But suddenly words seem to have failed Harry. Not knowing what else to do, he undid the handkerchief around his hand and showed Professor McGonagall the words that would probably be there for the rest of his life. _I must not tell lies._

At first he though maybe she had known about it all along, because she didn't say anything. Then she took his wrist, abruptly, but carefully not touching the cuts on the back of his hand, and dragged him out of the classroom.

She led him to the staff room and flung open the door. It was rather depressingly furnished in shades of gray. Professors Sprout, Snape, Vector, Burbage, Hooch and Flitwick were all seated at a large slab of a marble table. Snape was idly stirring a cup of tea. That was all Harry had time to take in before McGonagall held up his hand and announced. "That old toad has used a Blood Quill on Harry Potter."

Professor Flitwick gasped and Professor Burbage looked away as though she might be sick. Harry wondered at the name. Blood Quill. It was so obvious that it sounded a bit stupid. He'd always been so busy hating the owner, that he'd never given much thought to the thing itself, but now he realized it was probably a very dark object, something that might find a home in Borgin and Burkes.

"How dare she!" said Madame Hooch.

"Why didn't you tell us about this, Potter?" asked McGonagall.

"I thought you knew," Harry said simply.

None of them seemed to know what to say to that. They were all staring at him, no one moving, Snape's tea growing cold.

It was, to everyone's apparent surprise, but none so much as Harry, Snape who moved first. He stood and lifted Harry's hand, examining the cuts.

"Murtlap Essence, do you think, Severus?" asked McGonagall.

I've already tried that," said Harry. When everyone turned to stare at him again, he added, "Hermione."

"I have something a bit more potent," suggested Snape.

"By all means, fetch it," said McGonagall.

"_Accio Abus!_"

A small glass jar whizzed into the office a few seconds later. Snape undid the top and swept up some cream with his long fingers. He began to apply it to Harry's hand, using even more care than he did when he was dicing daisy roots. Pausing briefly, he met Harry's eyes.

"We did not know, Potter."

The fact that Snape was being kind to him, more than anything else, drove home precisely how stupid he'd been. Of course they hadn't known, or they would've used the information to get Umbridge the sack. Instead, he'd kept it a secret and subjected them all to weeks of unnecessary Educational Decrees and "hem hems."

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, and Madame Hooch started as though he'd shouted. "I should have realized the ministry couldn't be seen to support her if this got out. I didn't think-"

"For heaven's sake, stop apologizing, Potter," said McGongall, but still she looked upset. If only Harry could just explain.

"I just thought, after you told me to keep my head down, that you must know, and you just weren't in a position to get rid of her."

"Oh, Potter." If anything, McGonagall sounded even more upset.

"We do not have that happy power," said Snape. "But the Minister of Magic does."

"I'll go to the Fudge immediately," said McGonagall.

Snape finished applying the potion, and Harry realized his hand felt better than it had in ages. Still, Snape did not move. He didn't look like he was in anything that could be described as a good mood, but for some reason, Harry was driven to ask, "Professor, do you think you might tutor me in potions? Only, we just had careers appointments, and I think I want to be an Auror."

"In that case," said Snape, finally releasing Harry's hand. "I suggest you work a little harder on recognizing evil for what it is."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I was going to make this a one-shot, but I got several requests for a chaptered fanfiction, so I've decided to continue it. I have no idea where it's going to go, which is not at all my usual writing style. But, as Dumbledore would say, "Let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure."

So if anyone has any suggestions, please feel free to share them with me.

* * *

"We've stepped it up a notch, haven't we?" said Ron the next morning, around a mouthful of oats. "Two Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers in one year?"

"That's being rather generous to Umbridge," said Hermione. "But don't get ahead of yourself, Ron. She's not gone yet."

"She will be soon, though. Now that McGonagall knows what's what."

"Yes," said Hermione simply. Harry knew it had taken her quite a lot of her not to tell him, "I told you so," when he came to them last night, after McGonagall had finally let him leave.

McGonagall had made him go over exactly what had been said and done in his detentions with Umbridge, as if she was preparing him for a particularly grueling test. After they'd been at it for an hour, Snape insisted on collecting his memories as well.

The Potions professor had placed the tip of his wand to Harry's temple, leaving him feeling more than a little vulnerable, especially considering this was the first time he'd seen Snape since the Occlumency lesson that had gone so horrible wrong. Snape made no mention of it though, as he extracted Harry's memories. The substance flowed, pewter-colored and plasma-like, from Snape's wand to a ready Griffin beaker, and for a moment, Harry thought he saw Umbridge's face before it swirled out of sight.

Sometimes he thought he hated her even more than he hated Lord Voldemort. He knew that was stupid, and he would never say as much out loud. Maybe it was just because he'd grown up knowing Voldemort was evil, but Umbridge's petty, unnecessary and sometimes devastating cruelty always managed to surprise him.

Once the memories were collected, Snape had deftly transferred them to from the beaker to a glass phial, which he stoppered with paraffin. Harry noticed he'd summoned a selection of differently sized phials, no doubt because he was unaware exactly how many detentions Harry had served with Umbridge. He'd ended up having to use the largest one.

At first Harry wondered why they couldn't just take a photograph of his hand to show Fudge. He was sure Collin Creevey would be happy to oblige. Taking his memories seemed excessive, but as soon as they'd been removed, Harry felt a little better. He'd always wondered exactly how Dumbledore's Penseive worked, whether or not it left you with something like the amnesia that characters were always suffering from on Aunt Peteunia's soaps.

It turned out he could still remember his detentions, but he no longer felt forced to think about them. They were less like his visions of Voldemort now, and more like his memories of the Dursleys while he was at Hogwarts. Unpleasant, but as long as he was far from the source of the unpleasantness, he was able to ignore it.

He wondered if that was why Snape had chosen to take his memories rather than a photograph.

McGonagall had owled ahead to inform Fudge she required an audience with him, but she hadn't waited for a reply before taking the phial of Harry's memories and flooing to the Ministry. Snape was left as interim Headmaster, which didn't bother Harry quite as much as it would have a week ago.

He'd left the staff room and returned to the Gryffindoor common room, where he immediately told Ron and Hermione everything that had happened. Both seemed oddly proud of him for having told McGonagall about his hand. Harry wasn't sure what there was to be proud of. It wasn't as though it had hurt or been dangerous or anything like that. He thought they should have given him a good telling off for not doing it weeks ago. To think, he and the Weasley twins could have been playing Quidditch all this time.

They'd stayed up late discussing the new development as the common room fire smoldered down. Harry had told them everything, except, for reasons he wasn't quite sure of, his extra potions lessons with Snape.

Harry didn't know what he'd been expecting to come of Professor McGonagall's meeting with the Minister. He didn't think she was the type to hold a scene in the Great Hall, the way Umbridge had when she tried to evict Professor Trelawney, and anyway, he knew Fudge would want to avoid any hint of a scandal. If anything, Harry expected Umbridge to simply disappear in the middle of the night.

But while Umbridge was still holding office in Defense Against the Dark Arts, all of Professor McGonagall's classes had been cancelled for the day. Harry wondered if perhaps she should have waited for a response from Fudge after all. His own experience with bureaucracy over the summer had been a bit of a whirlwind, but he knew that, on the whole, there was usually a lot of paper shuffling and talk of proper channels. He just hoped McGonagall would be back soon. He still wanted to bring his Transfiguration grade up a bit before the OWLs.

In the meantime, Harry had received an owl at breakfast telling him to go down to the dungeons at 6:00 p.m. for his first tutoring session with Snape. It was the same time as his abandoned Occlumency lessons.

Snape had been civil, even kind the night before, but that had been in the staff room, surrounded by his fellow teachers. What would he say when it was just the two of them? Harry wasn't worried about being shouted at or having jars lobbed at him again. Even that would be better than the moment when he'd have to pluck up every bit of his Gryffindor courage and apologize. Snape had been trying to help him, giving him Occlumency lessons in his spare time, and Harry had repaid him by invading his privacy.

He arrived early for his lesson. Snape rose, and gestured to a cauldron near the front of the room.

"I thought we would begin with the potion I used on your hand last night. Knowing your proclivity for attracting danger, it will not be the last time you need it, and while it does not take long to brew, it should provide an appropriate level of challenge. Abus is a healing potion. It works best on injuries that are delivered unjustly and without provocation. I believe it is a favorite with the Department of Social Care at the Ministry. You should find everything you need in the school cupboards, except for Eglantine rose and Rue, since they must be picked fresh, before the sun has risen. Remember, the flowers with the most dew will yield the best results. Those ingredients, you will find on my desk. Instructions are on the board. Begin."

Harry collected the little pink and yellow blossoms, which looked very much out of place in the dungeon, and began to crush them with his mortar and pestle. He'd been at work for a half an hour when Snape approached his desk. Harry looked up.

"I have something I need to discuss with you, Potter. Are you able to work and speak at the same time? I imagine you've had plenty of practice with Weasley and Granger."

"Sir?"

"I find myself in a position that is distasteful to me."

"What position is that, sir?" asked Harry, certain the answer was going to be something along the lines of, "Being in the same room as you." He wondered if McGonagall had forced Snape to tutor him. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been fobbed off on somebody who didn't want anything to do with him.

"That of having to apologize to you."

"Sir?"

"When I discovered you had entered my Penseive, uninvited, trespassing on my memories," Snape pursed his lips, and Harry had a hard time seeing how this was leading up to an apology, "I was concerned you had seen certain things. Things that are quite personal to me. I overreacted. I am sorry."

He'd been dreading having to apologize to Snape. He'd never dreamed that Snape might be dreading the same thing.

"No, Professor. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have looked at your memories without asking. And my father-"

Snape held up a pale hand. "You are correct, Mr. Potter, something I do not often have opportunity to say in this classroom. However, that did not give me a right to accost you. You are a student, entrusted to my care. Nothing would give me that right."

Harry didn't know what to say to that. Snape saved him the decision by collecting a small sample of the finished Abus potion.

"Not as poor as your usual attempts. Next time, add the rue after you lower the heat."

"So, can I come back again? For more potions lessons?" asked Harry.

"No."

"Oh." He should have known better than to push his luck. "Of course, sir. Well, thanks for-"

"Your potions work, while hardly exemplary, is not quite as dire as your Occlumency. We will resume lessons immediately. I expect your full efforts this time, or I'll be forced to give you deten-" Snape broke off.

The dungeon was silent for a moment, except for the whisper of the fire. Then Snape thrust the phial of Abus towards Harry.

"For your hand. A few more applications should do the job. You might also want to use it on the bruises on your arm."

Snape was looking at the spot where, under the robes, they both knew there were five fingertip-shaped marks. He'd honestly forgotten about them. He'd found Snape's jar throwing much more alarming, never being entirely sure what you might find in a jar in the Potions classroom. Anyway, he'd gotten marks like that loads of times when Uncle Vernon had shaken him.

"Sir? It's not the same. What you did, it's not the same as Umbridge. She does it because... because she knows I can't do anything about it, and she likes that. You treated me like someone who'd done you a wrong, like an adult. I don't think the Abus potion would work on the bruises you gave me, because you didn't do it unjustly, or without provocation or whatever. And anyway, they're not that bad. They'll be gone in a day or two."

"I would suggest," said Snape, sounding as though the words cost him, "that you try the potion anyway. You may be surprised to find that its definition of unjust and yours do not quite match up."

Suddenly the dungeon door burst open, and Professor McGonagall appeared, panting slightly. Her hair was out of order and, while it was hard to tell, because all her robes looked exactly alike, Harry thought she might be wearing the same clothes she'd had on the day before, though in slightly worse shape.

"Harry! Oh, thank goodness. I was looking all over for you. You need to come with me right away." She seemed to notice Snape for the first time. "Severus, perhaps you'd better come too. I know he's not your house, but as a Member of the Order..."

"Where are we going?" asked Harry, starting to clean up his potions supplies. McGonagall stepped forward and took his wrist, just as she had the night before.

"There's no time for that! Your hearing's in ten minutes!"

"Hearing? What did I do this time?"

McGonagall seemed to be having a hard time meeting his eyes. "It isn't a criminal hearing. It's with the Department of Social Care. Fudge is trying to make you a ward of the Ministry, and have you committed to St. Mungo's."

"St. Mungo's? For what? I feel fine."

"For self-harm."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: This chapter may be triggering to people who suffer from self-harm.

* * *

ALL PROCEEDS FROM THE FOUNTAIN OF MAGICAL BRETHREN WILL BE GIVEN TO ST MUNGO'S HOSPITAL FOR MAGICAL MALADIES AND INJURIES.

As Harry passed the fountain, he had to fight the urge to laugh. He'd emptied his whole moneybag into the water after he'd been cleared last summer. Some of those Galleons might end up paying for his bed At St. Mungo's if he wasn't cleared this time around. Although he was still having a hard understanding exactly what he was being charged with.

"Will it be Madame Bones again?" Harry asked hopefully, as he hurried down the corridor, Snape and McGonagall flanking him.

"She's the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The Head of the Department of Social Care is Fanny Sanger. The hearing will be in her office. Down the corridor on your left."

"Just her?"

"I believe the Minister will also be attending, as will his Senior Undersecretary."

"Umbridge?"

"I'm afraid so."

"What happened?" asked Snape.

"I told him," said McGonagall. She founded furious, but that may have just been because she was panting. "I told him, and I showed him the memories. He just won't _listen._"

She pressed her lips together, and Harry could tell she was, in fact, furious, and she wasn't just talking about his hearing, but about Dumbledore's disappearance and Voldemort's return. He could understand her frustration. Good and Evil were at war, and whether the war was won or lost might depend on a single, petty politician. He supposed that was true of most wars, but that didn't make it any better.

"Here," said McGonagall, and Harry stopped in front of a door with a little plaque that read, "Fanny Sanger, Head of the Department of Social Care." Harry pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The pink cushions gave him a flashback to Umbridge's office, but at least there were no ornamental plates with kittens on them. A witch, who Harry supposed was Fanny Sanger, was seated behind the desk. Her hair was exactly the shade of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, which made the rest of the pink in the room a little less offensive. Harry wanted to ask if she was an Metamorphmagus, or if she just dyed her hair. He knew it was an impolite question, though, so he kept his mouth shut. Standing on either side of her, much the way Snape and McGonagall were standing on either side of him, were Fudge and Umbridge.

"Hem, hem." Umbridge cleared her throat.

"Now that Mr. Potter has finally arrived," said Fudge, even though, despite all odds, they'd actually managed to make it on time. "Perhaps we can begin, Madame Sanger?"

"Of course. I'm Fanny Sanger, Mr. Potter," said the witch behind the desk in a kindly voice. "I want you to answer my questions as honestly as possible. If I ask you something to which you don't know the answer, simply say, "I don't know." That's perfectly fine."

It seemed a bit funny that she was talking to him as though he was eleven, but he supposed that was a force of habit. If the wizard Department of Social Care was anything like social services in the Muggle world, then Madame Sanger mostly dealt with abused kids. He still didn't understand how he'd ended up in her office. Professor Umbridge had been out of line when she'd made him use a Blood Quill; he saw that now, but she hadn't hit him or anything. And anyway, it didn't seem like Umbridge was the one on trial.

"May I see your hand?" asked Madame Sanger.

Harry glanced at McGonagall, who nodded stiffly. He approached the desk and removed the handkerchief from his hand. When Snape had applied the Abus potion in the staff room at Hogwarts, the wounds had closed almost immediately. They were still there, the cuts stark against his skin, but they'd stopped bleeding. The words, however, were still quite legible.

"I must not tell lies," Madame Sanger read. "Can you tell me how you received these cuts, dear?"

"Professor Umrbidge gave me detention. She made me do lines with a special quill," said Harry. "I think it's called a Blood Quill."

"Poppycock," said Fudge. "Dolores Umbridge is an exemplary professor and a ministry official. She would never use a dark object on a student."

McGonagall stepped forward. "We have provided you with Potter's memories. They clearly show otherwise."

"Memories can be modified," said Fudge.

At any other time, this information would have interested Harry very much. It made sense that if you could modify someone's memories while they were still in their head, you would also be able to alter them when they were in a Penseive. But then, why did people not modify their memories so that they got the girl, still had their parents, were always happy, and then simply live in the Penseive? It sounded even more tempting than the Mirror of Erised.

"That is very advanced magic," said Professor Snape. "Far beyond the capabilities of any fifth year. Particularly Potter."

That answered his question. But Fudge didn't seem satisfied. "Harry Potter has always proved to be an exceptionally gifted student." Snape snorted, and for some reason, Harry found that comforting. "As he proved in his last hearing, he is fully capable of conjuring a corporeal Patronus."

Madame Sanger raised a hand. "Mr. Potter, did you alter your memories?"

"No," said Harry.

"He's lying," said Professor Umbridge. Other than "hem, hem," those were the first words she'd spoken since they'd entered the office. "He's a liar, and he knows it. That's why he chose to carve those words into his skin. He wanted to be punished for the crimes he's committed."

"I didn't want to cut myself," Harry said hotly.

"So you admit you did this to yourself!" cried Fudge.

"Well, of course he did it to himself!" McGonagall sounded exasperated. "But that... woman made him."

"Be reasonable, Minerva," said Fudge. "We know he's disturbed. All these nightmares, the lies about He Who Must Not Be Named, it's no more than we should have expected, the boy growing up with all this unnecessary attention. He's simply looking for more of it. It's really very sad that he would resort to abusing himself."

"Why would I hurt myself?" asked Harry. He knew he was speaking louder than strictly necessary. "There seems to be more than enough people queuing up to do it for me."

"How are you feeling?" asked Madame Sanger.

Harry was thrown. "Er, how am I what?"

"How are you feeling?" she repeated, like that would make it any clearer.

"A bit confused," he answered honestly.

She nodded, understandingly. "Don't worry, dear. That's common in these cases, quite common. You want people to notice you, but you don't know how to handle it when they finally do. You just have to remember that we all want what's best for you."

"She doesn't," said Harry, looking at Umbridge.

Fudge puffed up his chest. "Of course Professor Umbridge wants what's best for you. Even before this incident, she had approached me with the idea of making you a ward of the Ministry and turning your care over to the Healers at St. Mungo's. She was quite concerned for your mental health. She even suggested the possibility of becoming your guardian."

Harry turned to Snape and McGonagall, hoping that they knew some way to get him out of this, but they both looked as shocked as he was.

Fudge seemed to be talking to himself now. "Of course, it's uncommon for anyone outside the Department of Social Care to be appointed as a guardian, but this is an uncommon case. The Boy Who Lived... Yes, I think it would be appropriate if I kept a close eye on you, Mr. Potter, and as Umbridge is my Senior Undersecretary, it would be best if... I fully recommend that Mr. Potter become a ward of the Ministry, with Dolores Umbridge as his guardian, and that he be committed to St. Mungo's until his issues can be sorted out."

"Cornelius," McGongall said, but Fudge cut her off.

"Frances?"

Madame Sanger took another look at Harry's hand and pursed her lips. "I believe hospitalization may be necessary. I see so many children abused by those around them. Over the years, you start develop a thick skin, so to speak, but I don't think I'll ever get used to this."

Like Fudge, she almost seemed to be talking to herself. Harry was sick of people making decisions about his life without consulting him.

"I didn't hurt myself. Professor Umbridge made me use a Blood Quill. Please don't send me to St. Mungo's. Please let me go back to Hogwarts. It's my home. It's the only home I've got," he said.

For some reason, Snape seemed to start as his words, but Fudge ignored him completely.

"That's that, then?" said the Minister. "Because I have a press conference in half an hour, and I really need to prepare."

Harry was suddenly reminded of Gilderoy Lockhart. He supposed they'd be bunkmates soon. As if he wasn't depressed enough already.

"I'll submit the necessary paperwork," said Madame Sanger. "Harry Potter will be admitted to St. Mungo's tonight."


	4. Chapter 4

There wasn't a ward at St. Mungo's for people who hurt themselves on purpose. Most of the mental cases, like the Longbottoms, were on the fourth floor, but Harry didn't belong in Spell Damage, unless you counted the spell that had started all this when he was a year old. They wound up sticking him on the ground floor, in Artefact Accidents, since it was obvious enough a Blood Quill had been involved.

Harry found it hard to believe there weren't enough mental cases in all of Muggle London to merit a proper psych ward at St. Mungo's. Then again, considering some of the wizards he knew, it was probably a matter of relativity. Anyway, he wasn't complaining. He'd rather be in Artefact Accidents than a loony bin.

He'd been assigned to the Technew Kaput Ward: Household Items. It was even dingier than the "Dangerous" Dai Llewellyn Ward, where Mr. Weasley had stayed. There weren't any crystal bubbles on the ceiling, and the walls were grayer than the staff room at Hogwarts. Harry wondered why they didn't at least splash on a bit of yellow paint or something if they thought he was depressed.

When he was admitted, the only other patient on the ward was a Muggle who'd bought a biting teakettle by mistake. They were waiting for the swelling to go down so they could modify her memory and send her back to Berkshire. Curtains were drawn around her bed, and the Trainee Healer, a young witch named Melba, had advised Harry not to speak to her.

"They've already had to modify her memory a few times to keep her calm. It's left her a bit... dodgy. Best not to excite her."

Harry, remembering Mr. Roberts from the Quidditch World Cup, had quickly agreed. He didn't feel much like talking to anyone, anyway.

McGonagall and Snape had been allowed to accompany him to St. Mungo's, despite his protests that they didn't need to, he'd been there before, he'd be fine on his own. He wished they had listened to him. He felt humiliated enough as it was, being made to give up his wand and his clothes. At least the robes weren't as bad as Muggle hospital gowns. They didn't leave his backside exposed, but he still felt oddly vulnerable in them.

He even had to give up his Abus potion. He couldn't quite understand the logic of a hospital confiscating a healing potion to keep him from harming himself, but Melba had explained, with a sympathetic look, that he wasn't allowed to have anything made of glass.

He lay in bed, trying to ignore the low moans coming from the Muggle, and studiously avoiding his professors' eyes.

"We'll file a petition," said Professor McGonagall, looking down at him. "I'll write to everyone at the Ministry we know to be friendly to Dumbledore. We'll force Fudge to see reason."

"Right, Professor." More for something to say than out of any actual curiosity, he asked, "What about the Dursleys?"

He'd never claimed fondness for the his aunt and uncle, but at least they largely ignored these days. Once in a while, after a brandy or two, Uncle Vernon would pick a fight, but that was still better than the idea of being Umbridge's ward.

"What about them?" McGonagall asked, but Snape seemed to understand.

"I asked the Minister whether or not he had dissolved your current guardianship. He informed me that he was able to relieve your aunt and uncle of their duties without their consent, since, as Muggles, they have no standing in wizard court. They were, however, notified, and they... acquiesced. I'm afraid there can be no doubt in regards to that matter. The Minister showed me the letter."

Harry didn't ask exactly what the Dursley's had said, and Snape didn't offer. He blushed at the knowledge that his professor had been privy to Uncle Vernon's correspondence. He was sure the word "freak" had cropped up more than once.

Snape dropped a hand on his shoulder. Harry looked up, more out of surprise than anything else.

"We will not leave you here," he said quietly. For some reason, that was more comforting than McGonagall's much more practical promises, even though Harry knew they'd have to leave, at least for the night.

"Right. Well, see you soon, then," he tried to sound businesslike, but was afraid he came off as either terrified or impertinent. He wasn't quite sure which.

"Stop indulging in embarrassment and listen to me, Potter," said Snape. "We will not leave you here, but I cannot say how long it will take to convince the Minister of his mistake. In the meantime, you will not be under the protection of Hogwarts or the wards on your aunt and uncle's home. St. Mungo's has its own security, but it is nowhere near as powerful. I trust you remember what happened to Broderick Bode. You must improve your Occlumency, and you must be aware of your surroundings at all times. You must practice-"

"Constant vigilance?" finished Harry.

"Indeed."

"Right," he said, feeling a bit better for having something to do. "But how am I supposed to work on my Occlumency without you trying to cop a look at Dudley flushing my head down the toilet when I was five?"

"I believe I informed you earlier this evening that our next lesson is scheduled for six o'clock on Monday evening."

"What, still?"

"I'm sure you'll be back at Hogwarts before then," said McGonagall.

"Right, but if I'm not?" Harry knew he was being difficult, but he wanted to hear Snape say it.

Snape raised an oily eyebrow. "Then I shall come here, of course. Stop trying to get out of your lessons, Potter."


	5. Chapter 5

They did not have Harry out of St. Mungo's before his next Occlumency lesson. Snape was true to his word, and showed up at precisely six o'clock, which lessened Harry's anxiety somewhat, although the lesson did leave him with a nasty migraine. He wasn't sure if it was from trying to keep his mind blank or trying to put up with Snape's sarcasm. At least he wasn't having dreams about being a snake anymore. Just his regular nightmares, which the unpleasant new twist of being strapped to a hospital bed while Voldemort murdered his family.

Snape wasn't his only visitor. Ron and Hermione came to see him three days after he was admitted.

"We would've come sooner," said Hermione, taking Harry's hand, like he was actually sick or something. "But Umbridge is being really difficult about letting you have visitors. She keeps saying we're not to excite you."

"We wore her down though. I think in the end she just wanted us out of her hair for an afternoon," said Ron. He and Hermione exchanged a knowing look. Harry wanted to ask what that was about, but he had more important questions.

"What's happening on the outside?" he asked. "Any news from Dumbledore?"

Hermione shook her head. "No. But that's a good thing, isn't it?"

"I suppose so."

Ron shrugged off his coat. "The DA and the Order all wanted to come too, but since Umbridge is being so stingy with your visiting privileges, Mum and Dad thought it would be best to wait until we've actually got a plan to get you out."

"You're here though."

"Since when do I listen to Mum and Dad?" he looked affronted.

"How is everyone? How's Sirius?" Harry asked.

He'd spent the past few days half worried and half wishing Sirius would break him out. It seemed exactly the sort of thing his godfather would do. At this point, Harry was pretty sure Sirius would've come to Dobby's rescue, if only for an excuse to leave 12 Grimmauld Place. Of course, Harry wouldn't want Sirius to put himself in any danger... But he'd broken out of Azkaban; he could probably get Harry out of St. Mungo's without being caught.

"He's well," Hermione said delicately.

Ron snorted. "Of course, that's probably just because no one's told him where you are."

"What?"

"Another one of Mum and Dad's decisions. Order members keep "forgetting" to bring him his copy of the Prophet."

"It's for the best," said Hermione. "If he knew, he'd come barging in here to rescue you, and probably get himself killed, or worse, arrested. They wouldn't give him a trial, and even if he did, it wouldn't be a fair one. He'd get the Kiss."

"You're probably right."

Some of Harry's disappointment must have shown in his voice though, because Hermione said, "Honestly, it's obvious you two are family. You're both exactly alike, always rushing into dangerous situations without thinking things through."

"We're not actually related," Harry reminded her.

"As if that matters," Ron said easily. "Oh, yeah, I almost forgot; Mum and Dad said to tell you if we can figure out how to get Umbridge the sack, they're going to petition for guardianship. I hope you like toast, 'cause that's all Mum ever makes for breakfast when we don't have guests."

Ron and Hermione politely pretended to be fascinated by the sleeping Muggle in the next bed over while Harry wiped his eyes on his waffle fabric blanket and wished that people would stop springing things like this on him when he was trapped in a hospital bed.

When Ron and Hermione came back, he cast about for something to say. He noticed the newspaper sticking out of Hermione's bag.

"So how bad was it?"

"How bad was what?" asked Ron.

"The article in the Prophet."

"Harry-"

"Shove off. I'm not Sirius. You said the Order wouldn't let him have a copy of the paper, and at the end of my hearing Fudge said he was going to a press conference."

Hermione frowned. "That makes it sound like he'd already made up his mind about the outcome of your hearing."

"So how bad was it?" he pressed.

"As bad as you're thinking," snapped Hermione. "They said what they've been saying all year: that you're disturbed. Fudge said you've been committed to St. Mungo's to protect you from yourself."

"Nothing about Umbridge, though. Is it true she's your guardian now?" asked Ron.

"Don't remind me."

"We think Umbridge convinced Fudge to hush up her part in it, because she doesn't want other students coming forward. We asked around, tried to find anyone else she'd used the Blood Quill on, but the only one who admitted to it was Lee. He made fun of Educational Decree Number Twenty-Six, and she made him write, "I will not be cheeky," but he only did one detention with her. The marks are all gone. So we've been trying to get the old toad to give us detention."

"Wait," said Harry. "You've been _trying_ to get Umbridge to give you detention? Maybe you're the ones that belong in here."

"Well, to start, we were just trying to break into her office, to see if we could find that quill. The DA set off a Caterwauling Charm in on the third floor to give us time to search. We didn't find anything. Hermione even tried a Summoning Charm."

"Either she's not keeping the quill in her office anymore, or she's hidden it with very powerful magic," said Hermione.

"Umbridge sorted out the Caterwauling Charm quicker than we'd expected. It was a near miss. We had to hide behind some bit of furniture. I'm not actually sure what it was, it was covered in so many lace doilies."

"That was when we realized we shouldn't be trying so hard not to get caught," said Hermione. "If Umbridge used the Blood Quill on one of us, we'd be able to prove that you were telling the truth all along. Fudge might try to say I modified my memories, but everyone knows Ron's miserable at charms."

"Hey!" said Ron indignantly. Then he shrugged. "Well, yeah. Okay, I am. So we started breaking as many rules as we could think of. We made a list. Fred and George helped. I mean, we were doing it partly because we were hoping we'd get Umbridge mad enough to use the quill, but partly just because it was funny to see how red she'd go. She must've caught on though, 'cause she just made us do lines. Regular lines, with ink and stuff. I think Hermione gave us away. She was a bit obvious if you ask me."

Hermione removed her hand from Harry's long enough to give Ron a smack on the arm.

"Well, you were! It was the Jelly-Legs Jinx that did it."

"You used the Jell-Legs Jinx on Umbridge?" Harry asked, a little awestruck.

"It was beautiful, mate."

"Thanks," Harry said, his voice alarmingly thick. He sincerely hoped he wouldn't start crying again. "Thanks for, er, doing all that."

"Oh, don't act like you wouldn't have done the same thing," said Hermione. "Anyway, it didn't work. We still don't have any proof."

"Did you try asking McGonagall for help finding the quill?"

"Yeah, but she just said something about handling this through the proper legal channels, not giving the Ministry any more ammunition to use against you," said Ron, sounding disgusted at the idea of doing things legally.

"Ask Snape," said Harry.

"What? Ask Snape for help? Don't be men-" Ron broke off awkwardly.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Ron, you've been calling me mental for years. I don't mind it. Least nowhere near as much as when you act like you think I really am."

"Sorry, mate."

"S'alright. I'm serious, though. I think Snape would help you get the quill. He hates Umbridge just as much as we do, and he doesn't care as much about rules as McGonagall."

"Unless a Gryffindor's breaking them," Ron muttered.

"Just ask him."

"Alright. Fine. Hermione will ask him."

Hermione glared at him, and Harry laughed for what felt like the first time in days.

He was sorry to see his visitors leave, even Snape, since without them, he had nothing to do but sleep. On his fifth day in the Technew Kaput Ward, Melba seemed to remember he wasn't allowed anything he could use to hurt himself, and apologetically confiscated his glasses, so he could even read the books Hermione had brought him. He was almost grateful, since they all had titles like _The Epistemology of the Esoteric_ and _Geomancy, a Field Guide_.

There was only one visitor he wasn't pleased to see. On his eighth day, he woke up to find Umbridge sitting in the chair next to his bed.

"What happened to 'I must not tell lies?'" he spat.

She didn't answer. They stared at each other for a full minute. Then Harry turned over, and faced the other way. He didn't want to expose his back to her (and he certainly wouldn't have done so if he'd been wearing a Muggle hospital gown), but he wanted to look at her even less.

Of course, he didn't fall asleep, so he knew she stayed, watching him for almost a half an hour.

What concerned him most was that she no longer thought he was worth pretending for. She didn't clear her throat. She didn't simper. And when she finally spoke, just before she left, her voice wasn't breathy or girlish at all.

"You will be moved to a secure ward tomorrow morning. You will no longer be allowed to receive visitors."


	6. Chapter 6

Harry had not expected to spend his last night of freedom helping Gilderoy Lockhart to answer his fan mail, especially considering he'd once passed a detention in the same manner, but there he was, copying out Gladys Gudgeon's address in lilac ink.

After Umbridge had left his bedside, Melba had entered to apply the Muggle patient's evening Memory Charm. She hadn't greet Harry the way she normally did, and he'd wondered idly what story Umbridge had told to have him committed to a secure ward. For a minute it had looked as though Melba might leave without speaking to him at all, but when she reached the door, she hesitated. Without turning around, she said, "The guards from Ward VII will come to collect you tomorrow at eight. It'll go easier if you don't put up a fuss. Best get some sleep."

Her words were not entirely comforting, and certainly not conducive to sleep. Not that Harry could have slept anyway.

Deciding to make the most of his relative freedom while he still had it, he'd slipped out of bed and padded to the door. He ran into a few on-call Healers in the hallway, but none of them paid him any attention as they strode purposefully towards various wards. He wandered, feeling a little like he had his first night under the invisibility cloak; all of St. Mungo's was open to him. Unfortunately, unlike Hogwarts, St. Mungo's at two in the morning was fairly dull.

Without particularly meaning to, Harry found himself climbing the staircase to the fourth floor. A figure was slumped against the door to one of the wards. He recognized the dented blond hair immediately, although it was unusual to see it without the accompanying impression of teeth.

"Professor Lockhart?"

"Oh, hullo," said Lockhart, looking up. "How're you then, Barry?"

"Harry. I'm alright. How are you?"

Lockhart sighed heartily and leaned his head against the door of the Janus Thickey Ward. Harry vaguely remember the Healer-in-Charge telling him that it was a closed ward, but Lockhart apparently sneaked out to give away autographs on a regular basis. That gave Harry a bit of hope.

"Miriam Strout is gone. Some silly business with a potted plant. The new witch won't help me answer my fan mail, and I'm still a bit shaky when it comes to joined-up writing," said Lockhart morosely. "Veronica Smethely will be so disappointed."

"Er, I'll help," said Harry.

Lockhart brightened immediately. "Excellent!"

Within seconds, Harry had a stack of envelopes in his hands. He dipped his quill in the pot of lilac ink and started in on the first one:

_Gladys Gudgeon_

_Hufflepuff Table_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

"Gladys Gudgeon goes to Hogwarts?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," said Lockhart. "Started Hufflepuff last year. My old house, you know. At least, I think it is. Though Gladys seems to believe it's Ravenclaw, for some reason, dear thing."

"Do you think I might add a letter to yours, Professor?" he asked.

Lockhart hummed his agreement as he carefully signed a photo, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth in concentration.

This was Harry's last chance to contact someone on the outside before he was confined to Ward VII. But who could he write to? Everyone already knew he was at St. Mungo's, and they'd find out about the secure ward as soon as they tried to pay him a visit.

He wasn't going to write McGonagall or Snape, begging them to come get him. It wasn't as though he was in any danger. Probably not even from potted plants, despite Snape's warning.

If he'd actually thought he was in any danger, Harry imagined he could simply walk out the front door any time before eight. But if he did, Umbridge would send him straight back. Like McGonagall, Harry believed that the only long term solution to his problem was a legal one (or a very illegal one, but he was trying not to contemplate murdering Umbridge too seriously, for fear he might take to the idea). This was temporary. A man like Voldemort couldn't stay hidden forever, and eventually Harry and Dumbledore would be vindicated.

But being locked up changed things.

As long as Harry had a choice in the matter, he was fine. He could stay at St. Mungo's, tell the truth when no one believed him, face down Voldemort, even serve detention with Umbridge without mouthing off too much. But as soon as he felt trapped, that was when he started to panic. It wasn't claustrophobia or anything like that. He didn't mind small spaces, as long as he could leave them. But he knew that as soon as the key turned in the lock tomorrow, Ward VII would become everything he'd ever felt unable to escape from: his cupboard, the bedroom at the top of the stairs, the Chamber of Secrets, the graveyard in Little Hangleton, his own name.

He hated the feeling of having no choice.

That was something McGonagall couldn't understand. Neither could Snape. No one could.

Except, he realized, Sirius.

Sirius, who'd spent twelve long years in Azkaban, escaping only to end up in another kind of prison, pacing the dusty corridors of 12 Grimmauld place. He would understand, and what's more, he would help.

If he was only informed his godson had been committed to St. Mungo's, Harry knew Sirius would find a way to get him out. He wasn't a Marauder for nothing. He'd think of something they could use against Umbridge. He wouldn't let Snape or McGonagall rest until Harry was free. Hermione was worried Sirius might leave the Order headquarters, but she was always worrying about something or other. That was what made her Hermione. Harry would simply tell Sirius, in his letter, not to come to St. Mungo's himself.

He was going to write Sirius. Hope swelled in him, the way it always did when he remembered he finally had family he could turn to for help. He pressed his quill to the paper, not even caring that Sirius would probably make fun of him for the lilac ink.

But then, almost as though his hope had been a bubble that he'd punctured with his quill, he realized he couldn't write to Sirius.

Snape must have been to 12 Grimmauld Place since Harry's hearing, and, like the rest of the Order, he'd hadn't said anything to Sirius about where Harry was. Knowing him, he'd probably enjoyed lying to Sirius, but all the same, if even _Snape_ was trying to protect his childhood enemy, then Harry couldn't be selfish enough to ask Sirius for help. Because Hermione was right; there was no pretending Sirius wouldn't rush straight to St. Mungo's, and Harry knew he'd never be able to live with himself if his godfather got hurt because of him. In a way it was nice, knowing someone cared about him that much. But it meant that Sirius was just one more person Harry had to protect. Sometimes it felt like he was Sirius' godfather, rather than the other way around.

He wanted so badly to write Sirius that the ache was almost physical. Then it occurred to him: he still could, so long as he didn't say where he was writing from. It wasn't as though owls were postmarked.

He quickly penned two letters.

The first was to Gladys Gudgeon. Having received his fair share of fan letters (all of which he had meticulously destroyed before Ron could ever see them, though only after replying to a few of the sadder ones), he had an idea of how it should go.

_Dear Gladys Gudgeon,_

_I'm afraid I've never had the pleasure of making your aquaintence, but as an old friend of Gilderoy Lockhart's, I've heard a lot about you. He was only just telling me how he wished you'd been there to lend a wand when he was battling Trolls in Stockton-on-Trees. He says you're a witch to be depended on._

_That's why I'm hoping you can help me. I have to pass on some correspondence discreetly. Please take the enclosed letter to the Hogwarts Owlery and call an owl named Hedwig. She'll know where to go. If you could include any replies with your next letter to Lockhart, I'd be forever in your debt._

_Harry Potter_

The second letter was a bit harder to write.

_Dear Snuffles,_

_How have you been? Don't worry, for once I'm not writing to give you bad news. Just wanted to see how you were doing. I hate to think of you locked up, though I know it's for the best, and that it's only temporary. How do you deal with it? Not being able to go outside, I mean. I imagine it gets dull. Maybe if we wrote more, it wouldn't be so bad? I know I could use the distraction from school. OWLs are coming up soon. Hermione's a nightmare, of course._

_Give Kreacher my love._

_Harry_

It wasn't the same as being able to ask Sirius for help, but it was better than nothing. And anyway, in the middle of writing the letter, he'd realized there was a way Sirius had already helped him.

Harry's wand was locked up somewhere in St. Mungo's, which meant if he wanted to use magic, he'd have to rely on charmed objects. Umbridge was surely inspecting his post, but he could have Lockhart pass him things. The Healers in the Janus Thickey Ward couldn't screen all his mail or they'd never have time to actually heal anyone.

The invisibility cloak came immediately to mind, but Harry wouldn't have any use for it without the present Sirius had given him for Christmas last year. So long as he had his penknife, he wouldn't be trapped. He'd be able to leave whenever he wanted. Harry took a moment to appreciate the irony of smuggling a knife into the hospital he'd been committed to for cutting himself.

He quickly added a note to Ron, explaining the situation and asking him to pass Gladys the cloak and the penknife.

"Here," he said, handing his correspondence to Lockhart. "Listen, can you do me another favor? When Gladys replies to you, she might send a few packages for me. One of them ought to be a little knife. It can open any lock. If you could bring it to me in Ward VII, you should be able to unlock my door. Can you do that for me?"

"Of course," said Lockhart, jovially. Then he gave Harry a funny look. "You know, I couldn't say why, but you put me in mind of a toilet."


	7. Chapter 7

Dear Harry Potter,

Anything for a friend of Lockhart's! Do you know, I have a photo of you and him together? I bought it off a third year who charged me a ten whole galleons for it, but it was worth it, even if you do keep hiding your face behind the frame.

Though, of course, I would have helped you even if you weren't friends with Lockhart. Mum and I both believe in you and Professor Dumbledore. Mum wasn't sure at first, but I know I'd never lie about You Know Who after what he did to Dad, and you lost both your parents, so I figure you'd feel the same, only twice as much.

Is Lockhart training you to fight You Know Who? Are the packages weapons of some sort? Don't worry, I didn't look. Your friend, the ginger, told me not to. I didn't think much of him, to tell the truth. He made fun of my T-shirt. It's true, the Muggle iron-on transfer did burn a bit of a hole in Lockhart's forehead, but Mum wouldn't transfigure it for me, since she thinks my obsession is unhealthy, and I'm fairly useless when it comes to transfiguration. McGonagall had us do toads into toadstools the other week, and mine still had warts. She docked half my points for that!

I hope when you and Lockhart defeat You Know Who, you write a book about it. You could call it _Magical Us. _If you need help with the cover, just owl me. I've got loads of ideas, and the third year who sold me the photo of you said he could do it quite tastefully.

Feel free to send any further letters through me. I am a witch to be depended on.

Yours,

Gladys Gudgeon

_Harry_

_Your note was a bit spare on the details, mate. I gave the Gladys Gudgeon the stuff, but what do you need your cloak and knife for? And why can't I just give them to you the next time Hermione and I visit? Though actually, I'm not sure how soon that'll be. Umbridge has been avoiding us. It might have something to do with the Furnunculus Curse Hermione used on her when her back was turned. I honestly can't see a difference, but Umbridge wasn't too pleased. Think Hermione might be working through some anger issues? Long as it's Umbridge and not us, right? Anyway, see you soon. I hope._

_Cheers,_

_Ron_

Dear Harry,

I was pleased to get your letter. I would have been writing you much more regularly, but I didn't want to interrupt your schoolwork. I know it's your OWL year. Don't spend too much time studying, though. I didn't, and I did alright on my exams. Of course, I wouldn't have studied at all if I'd known where my career path would take me. Turns out you down need any Outstandings to get in there.

Speakings of OWLs, I hope you're not still brooding about what you saw in the Penseive. Your dad was just joking around. It wasn't as though he ever really hurt Snivillus. Not any more than he deserved, anyway.

By the way, have you talked to him about your extra tutoring? I know I said to take it easy, but those lessons really are important. At least, that's what Mooney keeps saying and he's usually right about these sorts of things.

Love,

Snuffles

P.S. I passed on your message to Kreacher. You don't want to know his answer.

_Dear Snuffles,_

_Don't worry, I'm not studying too much. In fact, I should probably be studying a lot more than I am. But I've always worked best under pressure._

_Professor Snape is tutoring me remedial Potions again. We had a lesson just last Monday. He said I've gotten less useless which is practically an Award for Outstanding Services to the School from any other teacher. And I know I've gotten better at Potions. At least it's not keeping me up nights anymore. Actually, I think I've been sleeping far too much._

_You never answered my question. How do you handle not being able to leave the house? I think it would drive me crazy._

_Harry_

_P.S. Have you ever heard of the Gudgeon family?_

_P.P.S. I'm sure Kreacher will come around._

Dear Harry,

To tell the truth, I don't really know that I'm handling it. I hate being shut up. But I don't have much of a choice, do I? All I did was walk myself to the corner store the other day, and Molly pitched a fit.

Of course, there are other ways to leave the house. We didn't get in any trouble the last time we spoke, did we? Let me know if you think you can get to that grate again. And don't forget about the gift I gave you. I noticed you haven't used it yet.

Glad to hear Snivillus is back at it with your lessons. I was about ready to come down to the school and have a word with him myself.

Why do you ask about the Gudgeons? Dorran Gudgeon was an Auror. Not a very good one, to be honest, but anyone who decides to become an Auror's alright in my book. You Know Who Did him in a few years before he went after your mum and dad.

Love,

Snuffles

_Dear Snuffles,_

_Sorry, I think I must have lost your gift, and I don't think I can get back to that grate anytime soon. I'd rather talk to you in person too, but I'm afraid letters will have to do for now. It's almost summer anyway, and as soon as Dumbledore lets me, I'll come see you. If that's alright._

_Is it really a good idea for you to be going to the store? I mean, tinned tomatoes aren't worth risking you life over, right?_

_No reason, really. Gladys Gudgeon is a schoolmate of mine. She mentioned her dad the other day, and it made me curious. _

_Harry_

Dear Harry,

Snape told Ron and me that you've been confined to a secure ward. No wonder Umbridge was avoiding us. Why didn't you say anything? How bad is it? Should we come and get you?

We wanted to come immediately, but Professor Snape said we would only make things worse if we tried to see you before we'd found proof that you were telling the truth at your Social Care hearing. We went to him for help, like you suggested. Don't tell Ron I said this, but I think Professor Snape might be alright after all.

But if you say it's bad, we'll come get you, never mind what any teacher says.

Love,

Hermione

_Dear Hermione,_

_Don't worry about me. I'm fine. The secure ward isn't that bad. All it means is that I don't run the risk of bumping into Lockhart in the corridors._

_Speaking of which, you might want to ask Gladys Gudgeon to join the DA. I think she'd be keen. And tell Ron to ease up on her, okay?_

_Harry_

Dear Harry,

Of course I want you to come stay with me over the summer. I only wish you didn't have to go to the Muggles first. How has it been with them, by the way? They aren't still giving you a hard time, are they? Because I could always come sort them out for you.

Are you alright, Harry? Only your handwriting looked a bit shaky in your last letter. I know your exams are coming up, but try to get some rest.

Love,

Snuffles

_Dear Harry,_

_Haven't heard from you in a while. I know you must be busy studying, but owl me back just to let me know you're alright. A word will do._

_Love,_

_Snuffles_

Harry, if you don't write back, I'm coming to Hogwarts to check up on you.

Snuffles


	8. Chapter 8

Harry was dreaming.

It had become much harder to tell when he was dreaming since Harry had learned he was a wizard, and things like dragons and flying motorcycles had suddenly become part of his reality. Visions of Voldemort only complicated things further. This time, however, he was fairly sure it was a dream, because Ron and Hermione were there, and he wasn't allowed visitors anymore.

The DA had cast a Fidelius Charm on the Room of Requirement to keep Voldemort from getting in, but they'd been betrayed by their Secret Keeper, who, for some reason, was Sir Cadogan.

Harry was trying to usher DA members out of the room, but none of them were having any of it. Luna had decided to make a pot roast for the road. Ron was just sitting there, watching Hermione wrestle Crookshanks into his carrier, and giving her very unhelpful advice, such as, "Well, it's really the cat carrier chooses the cat, isn't it?"

Then the Room of Requirement turned into Ward VII.

When he'd first arrived at St. Mungo's, Harry had wondered why there wasn't a proper department for people suffering from mental disorders. Now he realized that it just wasn't listed on the floor guide.

Ward VII wasn't simply a closed ward, like Lockhart's. It was a long low corridor underneath the hospital proper, lined with private rooms that were only just large enough for a bed and a chamber pot. Since it was underground, there were no windows. The only light came from the crystal spheres that floated near the ceiling, as they had in Mr. Weasley's ward, although here they looked less like bubbles and more like some sort of growth. There weren't even any windows in the doors, so Harry hadn't been able to see inside any of the other rooms as the guards had marched him down the corridor, but he thought he'd heard a howl coming from one.

Harry's room dark and cold, but worst of all, it was very, very clean. The sheets were whiter than Hedwig's feathers, and the floorboards might have been scrubbed by Aunt Petunia (or Harry under Aunt Petunia's watchful eye). This was worse than the dark and the cold, because it made Harry start to wonder if the dark and the cold were only in his mind.

It was hard to believe that Ron and Hermoine were sitting through their OWLs, that Cho was crying about Cedric, that the rest of the world was still going on. He wondered what time it was, what day it was. He thought it might be Monday evening. Six o'clock on Mondays were Occlumency lessons. But Snape wouldn't come this time; Harry wasn't allowed visitors.

Of course, there wasn't really enough space for the DA in Harry's room, especially considering Crookshanks was putting up such a fuss, but Harry didn't mind. Perhaps his friends would be safe now that they'd left the Room of Requirement.

He'd just resigned himself to trying Luna's pot roast when Voldemort entered Ward VII.

He killed Neville first, who fell to the ground, as stiff as when Hermione had put him in a Full-Body Bind their first year. Then Luna was lying on the floor next to her pot roast, dead. Hermione and Crookshanks, dead. Ron, dead.

"Wake up, Potter!"

Harry woke, jackknifing into a sitting position. He was still in Ward VII, but his friends weren't there. It had been a dream.

"Was it a vision? Did you see the Dark Lord?"

"No," he responded automatically to that voice. Something deeply instilled in him recognized that failure to do so would result in punishment, possibly involving pickled slugs. "It was just a bad dream."

"It must have been very bad indeed for you to turn to me for comfort."

That's when he realized that not only was Snape in his room, but he was sitting on the edge of the bed, and Harry was clutching the front of his robes.

Harry let go immediately. Snape remained seated on his bed, although that was probably only because there wasn't really room for him anywhere else. He smoothed out his now wrinkled robes but refrained from further comment, for which Harry was extremely grateful.

"What are you doing here, sir? I thought I wasn't allowed visitors anymore?"

Snape merely snorted. "What day is it, Potter?"

"Not sure."

Snape narrowed his eyes at that, as though trying to decide whether or not Harry was being cheeky. "It is Monday. It is also six o'clock. I told you to stop trying to get out of lessons."

A small voice in the back of his mind that sounded a lot like Hermione's reminded him that if it was Monday, then he'd missed the last of his OWLs.

Harry struggled to sit up further. He was already at a disadvantage when it came to Occlumency; he'd rather not be half lying down as well. It was just that sitting up was so much more difficult than usual. As he leaned back against the headboard, still trembling slightly, he saw Snape's eyes narrow further still.

"I'm not trying to get out of lessons. It's pretty much the only magic I can do without my wand, so I've been practicing every night. Been trying to empty my mind before I go to sleep."

"Yes, it was always something of a surprise how difficult that was for you, considering you seem to do it well enough whenever I call on you in class."

Something wasn't quite right, though Harry couldn't put his finger on what it was. Then he realized that while Snape's tone was just as acerbic as ever, his hands were carefully checking Harry for injuries. He knew that's what Snape was doing, because Aunt Petunia had done the same thing from time to time after Uncle Vernon got carried away. Only Snape's hands were much more gentle than Aunt Petunia's had ever been, as he ran them over Harry's skinny arms and through his messy black hair, which was now almost as dirty as Snape's.

Perhaps this wasn't Snape at all, but someone who'd taken a Polyjuice Potion. Or perhaps it was a Boggart. Harry tried to picture Snape in Mrs. Longbottom's vulture hat. Nothing changed, except that Snape frowned when Harry let out a giggle.

"What is the matter with you, boy?"

"Nothing. Don't really belong here."

Snape pulled out his wand, waved it over Harry and muttered, "_Hippocratoro_._"_

Words appeared in the air, but Harry couldn't make them out because they were hovering over his own head. Also, he was still missing his glasses.

"You've been drugged," Snape said appraisingly.

"Medicine," Harry muttered sleepily. It was only six o'clock and he'd slept all day, but it was still so hard to stay awake. "They said they'd call Umbridge if I didn't take it. Didn't want to. I remember what you always told us: 'Don't take a potion if you don't know what's in it.'"

Snape looked surprised. At first Harry thought it was just because he'd paid attention in class, but then he realized how stupid he must have sounded. 'Don't take a potion if you don't know what's in it,' was an edict Snape dragged out whenever a student fed their lab partner some Swelling Solution as a joke. It was probably not unlike the Muggle, 'Don't take candy from strangers.' Something wizard children had heard since they were born, and therefore had a healthy skepticism for. Only a Muggle born would take it to mean he shouldn't accept a potion from a Healer at a hospital. Although considering the fact that Harry _had_ taken it and he felt like he was about to hurl slugs, maybe he'd had the right idea after all.

"It seems you've been given a combination of Calming Draught, a Confusing Concoction and a truth solution, less powerful than Veritaserum, but still quite potent," Snape said finally. "The truth solution is the most concerning. Have you been questioned?"

Harry nodded.

"About the Dark Lord?"

He shook his head.

"About what then?" Snape actually seemed to be trying to reign in his annoyance, which made Harry revisit his Polyjuice Potion theory. But only Snape could sound that annoyed while trying not to sound annoyed.

"Dumbledore. Hogwarts. The DA."

"The Dark Lord wouldn't care about your little club."

"Umbridge would."

Snape nodded jerkily, confirming what Harry's confused mind had already come around to: the guards and Healers of Ward VII were answering to Umbridge.

"Can we do our lesson soon, Professor? Only I'm a bit tired."

"I think not, Potter. It would be unwise to attempy Legilimency while you're in this state."

"But if I don't practice, I'll be vulnerable to an attack."

"I don't believe anything can be done for that that right now," Snape said, eyeing him critically. He continued, seeming almost to be speaking to himself. "The Dark Lord obviously has plans for you. Plans that he needs you alive for. It's really his Death Eaters you need to worry about. This may be the safest place for you at the moment, provided no one tries to send you a pot plant."

"Their cry is fatal," Harry said muggily.

Snape ignored him. "Listen to me, Potter. If your situation worsens, I want you to owl me immediately. I'm aware that you've found the resources to contact Granger and Weasley since your confinement. I trust that hasn't changed?"

Harry shook his head, then nodded it, not sure which one meant agreement.

Snape sighed. "Can you call me if you're in trouble?" he asked simply.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now if only you were able to recognize it. Oh, and in that case, please write to your godfather soon, for all our sakes. If you don't, he's liable to do something I'll be forced to clean up after."

That woke Harry. "Sirius! I forgot to write him back!"

"Calm down," said Snape, putting a hand to Harry's chest and pushing him back down to the bed. Harry wondered when he'd gone from sitting to lying down again. "It can wait till morning. Potter.. This will only be for a few more days, at the most."

Then, without another word, Snape stood and slipped out of Harry's room.

As soon as he'd gone, Harry struggled to a sitting position. He retrieved a quill and ink from their hiding place under a very clean, but loose, floorboard, and began to write. It took him several tries, but eventually he had a letter he thought would do.

_Dear Snuffles,_

_Sorry I haven't written in a while. Everything's fine. Try telling that to Hermione though. She's a nervous wreck, which is just silly, considering she's bound to have done better on her OWLs than the rest of the class combined. I expect I did alright, even in Potions. Snape's been almost decent since we started up with remedial Potions again, which makes it a lot easier to concentrate._

_Wish me luck. Hope you're well._

_Love,_

_Harry_

As Harry signed his name, struggling to keep the pen steady between his shaking fingers, he realized he was more of a liar than he ever had been before Umbridge got ahold of him. He had no time to worry about this, however, as he fell asleep almost immediately.

He began to dream. At least, he thought it was a dream. Voldemort was in the Department of Mysteries, but he wasn't alone. There was someone else, lying on the floor...

"Take it for me... lift it down now... I cannot touch it... but you can..."


	9. Chapter 9

He was in the Department of Mysteries. Shelves stretched to the ceiling, loaded with little glass spheres that winked in the blue candlelight.

"Crucio," said Harry, and his voice was the stuff of nightmares.

The man on the floor convulsed. Harry laughed. He tried to stop, to lift the Cruciatus Curse, but he couldn't. He couldn't do anything but laugh and laugh. It was like being under the Imperius Curse, except he couldn't fight it, and he definitely didn't feel relaxed. But his mind was just as foggy. He wasn't certain exactly what was happening. All he knew was that he had to stop it.

"Lord Voldemort is waiting," he said. His mouth felt different, tongue flicking against tight lips.

"You'll have to kill me."

"Undoubtedly I shall in the end," said Harry. "But you will fetch it for me first, Black... you think you have felt pain thus far? Think again... we have hours ahead of us and nobody to hear you scream."

He raised his wand to cast the Cruciatus curse again.

Harry woke up screaming.

That hadn't been a dream. He'd never been more certain. Sirius was being tortured by Lord Voldemort, and no one knew but Harry.

He all but fell out of bed and prised up the loose floorboard. Throwing the Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders, he used the penknife to unlock his door and stepped out into the hall.

Guards were patrolling the corridors, but Harry slipped past them silently, not even needing to muffle the sound of his footsteps, since his feet were bare. He wondered when they'd taken his shoes.

In the lobby, Lockhart was chatting up the plump blond Welcomewitch.

"Ah, yes," he was saying. "That does sound like a difficult job indeed. Did I ever tell you what I do?"

Lockhart must have snuck out of his ward again, although Harry didn't know what the Welcomewitch was doing there when visiting hours had ended ages ago. She had her coat on and her wand in hand, as thought she was getting ready to lock up.

She was blocking the doorway.

There was nothing for it. If the Welcomewitch cast some sort of Caterwauling or Intruder Charm, sneaking out would be impossible. Harry would have to try and slip past her. Knowing it was an ungentlemanly thought, he only wished she weren't _quite_ so plump.

Holding his breath, Harry moved towards the Welcomewitch. What he hadn't expected was for Lockhart to move towards her at the same time. His elbow caught Harry in the stomach.

Harry stumbled. The Invisibility Cloak became tangled under his bare feet. He felt the material slip from his shoulders as he fell. It would have been a bit comical, if it weren't so awful. As it was, Harry had never felt less like laughing.

The Welcomewitch screamed.

Harry tried to make a break for the doorway, but the guards had him around the waist before he'd made it three steps. He kicked, getting one solidly in the kneecap, but another got ahold of his legs. He pulled out his penknife, but it was snatched from his hand almost immediately.

"No! No! He's in danger! Please! It's Sirius!"

"You're damn right it's serious," a guard muttered, rubbing his knee.

Harry hadn't even been aware he'd been shouting, but he turned to Lockhart. "Please, professor! Please! Write Gladys! He's got Padfoot! He's got Padfoot at the place where it's hidden!"

But Lockhart only looked vaguely puzzled as the guards pinned Harry down. He felt his head hit the lobby floor with a dull thud.

A Healer approached, carrying a phial. _Don't take a potion if you don't know what's in it._ Harry struggled harder, but all it got him was the back of a guard's hand. His head bounced off the floor again.

The Healer prised Harry's mouth open and poured the potion down it, massaging his throat to make him swallow. Almost instantaneously, Harry felt his thoughts deaden. He tried to fight as they dragged him back to Ward VII, but he knew it was useless.

The guards took him back to his room and threw him bodily onto the bed. One waved his wand and thick leather restraints slithered up to wrap around Harry's wrists and ankles. Then they left, casting Colloportus behind them.

Harry tried doing wandless magic, the way he had before he knew he was a wizard. He focused on the straps around his wrists. _Diffendo. Diffendo, Diffendo, please, Diffendo, oh, please, Diffendo._

Nothing.

Never mind Voldemort, Harry couldn't even get past St. Mungo's Welcomewitch, and Sirius was going to die for it in the worst way imaginable.

He remembered how it had felt when Voldemort used the Cruciatus Curse on him. Like the pain in his scar was suddenly all over his body, and the closest he could come to coherent thought was wishing he would die.

How long, now, had Sirius been under the Cruciatus Curse? Harry didn't know. He'd lost his sense of time days ago. Too long. Any amount of time was too long. If Sirius even survived, would he go mad, as the Longbottoms had? Harry suddenly had a mental image of Sirius lying in a bed in the Janus Thickey Ward, slipping him a sweets wrapper.

Except that was stupid, if an Unspeakable did find him in time to save him, they wouldn't send him to St. Mungo's. He'd go to Azkaban, all that fresh pain in his head. He'd be a feast for the Dementors.

Harry couldn't help but wonder, would this have happened if he'd never told McGongall about his detentions with Umbridge? She wouldn't have gone to the Ministry. Harry wouldn't have been confined to St. Mungo's and started writing Sirius regularly, so Sirius would have never missed his letters and finally gotten an excuse to leave the house. Voldemort must have caught him on his way to Hogwarts and taken him to the Department of Mysteries.

If Harry hadn't whined to McGonagall about the Blood Quill, Sirius would be safe at 12 Grimmauld place right now, stalking about, disrupting the dust, threatening to have Kreacher's head mounted to the wall.

Funny how such a little thing could change so much.

Harry fought against the restraints until the leather dug into his skin and blood dripped down his wrists. Turned out they were right: He was harming himself after all.

He laughed, only it didn't sound like him. It sounded more like the laughter in his dream. Shrill and unnatural.

The restraints didn't give. The more he bled, the slicker they got, until he thought he might be able to slip his hands out of them, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make his hand small enough. At one point he thought he heard a pop, but even then his fist wouldn't fit through the restraints.

Finally he gave up. The sheets were damp and red under his hands. He had the rather ridiculous thought that at least his room wasn't so _clean _anymore.

Harry lay in the dark, too afraid of his dreams to fall asleep, too drugged to think, too sad to cry, unable to do anything but stare at the crystal spheres that lit the ceiling of Ward VII. The ones that looked so much like the orbs in the Department of Mysteries, where the only family Harry had left was being tortured to death.


	10. Chapter 10

Harry was trying to fall asleep.

Something very strong in him rebelled at the idea of sleeping while Sirius was in danger, but there was nothing he could do, strapped to a bed, unable to move more than an inch, and not knowing what was going on was enough to drive him mad. He didn't even know if Sirius was still alive. At least if he slept, he might see what was happening to his godfather, even if he had to see it through Voldemort's eyes.

The door to Harry's room opened. He craned his neck, expecting to see guards or Healers, maybe even Umbridge, come to punish him for his escape attempt. Instead, Lockhart stepped into the room.

"Harry?"

He unconsciously opened his mouth to correct him, but then shut it again when he realized Lockhart had gotten his name right this time.

"Professor? How did you get in?"

"I charmed the Welcomewitch."

"Without a wand?"

Harry had tried so hard to use wandless magic. When he was a child, his magic had always come out when he'd felt strongly about something, and it seemed as though he'd felt more this evening than the rest of his life put together.

For a moment, Lockhart looked just as confused as he did. Then he said, "Oh, no. Not that kind of charming. Anyway, I've got a wand. I pocketed yours while she was distracted."

Harry decided firmly that he didn't need to know the details. Lockart withdrew the wand from the pocket of his dressing gown. Harry took it, feeling the familiar grain of the wood under his fingers.

"Thanks," he said sincerely.

"Got your knife and cloak too," said Lockhart. He pulled out Harry's penknife and began sawing at the restraints around his wrists. "I supposed I owed you as much, after that business with the Memory Charm."

"Wait. You got your memories back?"

"Ages ago. Don't tell anyone, will you? There's a good lad."

"Then what are you still doing here?" Harry asked incredulously.

Lockhart, glanced around the room with something that almost looked like fondness.

"St. Mungo's isn't half bad if you're not Harry Potter. The nosh is decent. I've go my pinochle game with Magical Bugs on Fridays. No one makes me do any work, and people always bring me water when I ask for it. It's a bit like being famous, but without all the pressure. Do you know what I mean?"

"Not remotely," said Harry. "Er, so you won't be coming with me then?"

"Oh, goodness, no."

That was a bit of a relief. Harry was grateful for the help, but he doubted Lockhart would be able to charm their way into the Department of Mysteries. And some part of Harry, which he'd always known was there but had become much more aware of over the past few days, could never truly trust Lockhart. Not after what he'd been willing to do to Harry and Ron. Where he'd been willing to leave Ginny.

"Alright," said Harry. "Well, thanks again, but I have to go now."

"Would you like me to heal you before you leave?" asked Lockhart. "You look a right mess."

"I'm fine, thanks," said Harry. "I think I might need all my bones if I'm going to fight Voldemort."

"Is that what you're doing, then? Yes, I do believe I'll stay here."

Putting on the Invisibility Cloak, Harry left Ward VII for the second time.

He made it upstairs without meeting anyone, but in the hallway, he had to flatten himself against a wall to keep out of the way of two Healers doing rounds.

"...Spell Damage," one was saying. "Took four Stunning Spells to the chest. It's a wonder they didn't kill her. Poppy's with her now. I expect she'll be back on her feet in a few days, but Merlin, how many headmasters can Hogwarts go through in a year?"

Harry nearly followed them, wanting to know what had happened to Professor McGonagall, who had dared to attack her at Hogwarts, but the Healer had said she was still alive. There was nothing Harry could do for her. He might still be able to save Sirius.

The lobby was empty this time. Harry hurried to the door, but then hesitated, his fingers hovering over the knob. He didn't know if he could open it without setting off an alarm, and even if he could, he had no idea where to go.

Purge and Dowes, Ltd. was on Brompton Road. The Ministry of Magic was all the way over on Whitehall. It would take Harry ages to walk it and he didn't have any money for the underground or the Knight Bus. He might be able to sneak aboard the train in his Invisibility Cloak, but the idea of waiting for a train while Sirius was being tortured...

He needed help. He needed the Order of the Phoenix, but 12 Grimmauld Place was even further, all the way in Islington, and there was no guarantee he'd find a member there. Sirius was the only one who lived there, and Sirius was at the Ministry of Magic, in the Department of Mysteries, in the room with the glass orbs, at the end of row 97, and he was being _tortured._

At least, Harry hoped he was still being tortured, which was a horrible thing to have to hope.

Dumbledore was missing, McGonagall was gone, Sirius was captured and Harry had never felt more alone in his life.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and flinched, but it was just a portrait above the reception desk. A witch with silver ringlets stepped into the frame. Dilys Derwent must have been visiting her other portrait in the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts. With McGonagall at St. Mungo's, it would be Snape's office now.

Snape, who was a member of the Order. Snape, who'd told Harry to come to him if he was in trouble.

A month ago, Harry would have laughed at the idea of asking Snape for help, but as soon as it occurred to him, he felt an enormous sense of relief. He could almost hear his professor sneer, "Step back, Potter, and let the adults handle it."

"Professor Derwent," Harry hissed.

The witch in the portrait started. "Who's there?"

"Harry Potter. Please, I need you to find Snape right away and tell him to come to St. Mungo's."

"Harry Potter? Where?" She squinted around the lobby, as though she expected to find Harry hiding under a six month old copy of _Witch Weekly._

"I've got an Invisibility Cloak. Please, Professor! It's urgent!"

"Alright, alright. Don't get your knicker in a twist," she grumbled, but she left the frame again.

Harry paced the waiting room, feeling it had never been more appropriately named. He was seconds from tossing it in and trying the door, when he heard a loud crack. He turned to see Snape standing in the middle of the lobby. Harry took off his cloak.

"Professor!"

"What happened to you?" Snape's shrewd eyes moved from Harry's face to his wrists. "I leave you alone for a few hours, and you manage to get injured in a hospital? Hold still while I heal you."

"There's no time for that! Voldemort has Sirius in the Department of Mysteries!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Potter. Your godfather is at the Order headquarters."

"I saw it! I had a dream!"

"And did it ever occur to you that the dream might in fact be... a dream?"

This was why Harry never went to adults for help. They never _listened._

"Voldemort has Sirius!" he shouted, balling up his fists. "He's going to kill him!"

Snape simply stared at him. Harry wanted to say something more, but somehow he knew that wasn't what was needed. Instead, he met his potion master's gaze and held it.

"Very well, Potter," Snape said, finally. "If your little nightmare scared you so much, I'll take you to headquarters and you can verify with your own eyes that Black is still too cowardly to leave the house. Take hold of my arm."

Harry nearly fell on Snape's arm in relief. A minute later, he wished he'd braced himself a little more, because it felt as though he was a Bubotuber plant, and someone was trying to squeeze all the pus out of him. Everything from his toes to his eyeballs seemed to contract, until, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

He and Snape were standing in the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place. It was empty.

"Sirius!" called Harry. "Sirius, are you there?"

There was a wheezy chuckle from the corner of the room.

"Master has gone out, Harry Potter," said Kreacher.

"Where's he gone? _Where's he gone, Kreacher? Kreacher, has he gone to the Department of Mysteries?_"

"Master does not tell poor Kreacher where he is going."

"But you know! Don't you? You know where he is?"

The house-elf laughed. "Master will not come back from the Department of Mysteries. Kreacher and his mistress are alone again!"


	11. Chapter 11

"Sirius!"

Harry tore through the house, opening doors and shouting his godfather's name. The hallway with the Troll leg umbrella stand and the mounted House Elf heads.

"Sirius!"

Wallburga Black's portrait, which immediately awoke and began to shriek, her cries mixing with Harry's until neither sounded like real words. "Blood traitor! Mudblood lover! Mudwallower! Filth in the house of my father!"

"Sirius!"

The drawing room where they'd de-Doxied the moss colored curtains last summer with its tapestry of the Black family tree. _Toujours pur_.

"Sirius!"

Up the stairs and down the hall. Past Harry's old room. Phineas Nigellus Black.

"Sirius!"

Harry was only dimly aware of Snape following him until he took hold of Harry's arm, high above his damaged wrists.

"Potter. Stop it. You will exhaust yourself before you exhaust the possible hiding places in this house. If your godfather was here, he would have come when you called, like the mutt he is. We must look elsewhere."

"He's at the Ministry," said Harry. "We have to save him. Please, Snape."

"_Professor_ Snape," he said, and that shouldn't have been comforting, but for some reason, it was.

"Harry?" he turned to see Mad-Eye and Lupin standing at the end of the hall. A minute later, they were joined by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. He supposed some sort of meeting must have been called when McGonagall was attacked. It felt disloyal to Professor McGonagall, but Harry couldn't help being relieved at his bit of luck. They could come with him to the Ministry. They could help save Sirius.

Mrs. Weasley gasped. "Harry, dear. What happened to you?"

"Never mind that," said Harry. "Voldemort has Sirius!"

Everyone but Snape flinched at the name.

"Harry," said Lupin. "How could You Know Who have taken Sirius from-"

"Where?" said Harry, throwing open his arms to indicate the dusty, empty rooms that lined the corridor. "He wasn't at your meeting, was he? Did anyone even notice?"

"It was an emergency meeting," said Mad Eye. "Not everyone could be rounded up."

"He lives at your headquarters!" Harry shouted.

Mrs. Weasley flinched even harder than she had at the sound of Voldemort's name.

"We have to go to the Ministry of Magic right now," said Harry. "They're in the Department of Mysteries, where the weapon's hidden."

"How do you know about that?" asked Mad Eye.

Harry ignored him. "That's why he's taken Sirius there. Whatever he's after, he said that he can't take it, but Sirius can."

"No," said Snape. "He cannot."

Harry turned around to face his Potions master. He didn't realize how loudly he'd been speaking until he stopped.

"What?"

"Only the Dark Lord himself can retrieve the item in the Department of Mysteries. The Dark Lord, or you."

"Me? Why me?"

"Your dream was not real. The Dark Lord is trying to lure you to the Ministry."

Harry wanted more than anything to believe Snape, but before he could work out whether or not he did, he felt a pain so intense that, for a moment, he thought he was experiencing his nightmare all over again, only this time through Sirius' eyes. Then he realized that it was coming from his forehead.

Harry had lost count of the times his scar had pained him, but this was one of the worst. He gasped. He might have screamed. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard Snape gasp as well. Harry clutched at his scar, and Snape's hand went to his forearm.

Then, the pain subsided. Harry was panting. Snape only looked slightly less stoic than usual.

"He is summoning his Death Eaters. He must have realized his plan has failed."

Harry didn't answer, still trying to catch his breath.

"Potter. Are you alright?" asked Snape.

"He's angry. He's so angry. Be careful. He'll take it out on anyone he can."

"That's touching, Potter, but I did not ask you how the Dark Lord is feeling. Are _you_ alright?"

"I'm fine. Shouldn't you go? Won't he be mad if you keep him waiting?"

"I'm not going."

"What?" Harry was dimly aware of the rest of the Order watching them curiously. He realized, suddenly, that none of them had ever met Voldemort. It seemed strange to suddenly have so much in common with Snape. Only he supposed it wasn't really so sudden.

"I have often had to ignore the Dark Lord's summons to supposedly maintain my cover. I did so on the night he returned to power. Right now, I have no time to prepare a suitable story. The Dark Lord knows that you have not mastered Occlumency overnight. He will want to know why you didn't fall into his trap."

"I would have if it weren't for you."

Snape looked as though he might have flushed if he was a lesser man. "At any rate, we still have your lost dog to find."

Harry rubbed his scar. Snape was right. Voldemort might not have Sirius, but he was still missing, somewhere in a world of people who wanted him either dead or demented. Reckless or not, he was still a Marauder. He'd be taking care not to get caught, but all it would take was a single slip.


	12. Chapter 12

"Hogwarts," said Mrs. Weasley.

Harry turned around again. She was smiling at him, but her eyes were oddly bright.

"Molly?" Mr. Weasley prompted.

"Sirius has been talking about checking up on you, Harry. He even wrote Arthur and I to see if we'd heard anything about you from Ron. If he went anywhere, it's Hogwarts. I don't want you to go. Not while that horrible woman is still there. But Sirius is right. You are like your father."

"Not really," said Harry, distractedly.

Even when he thought Sirius was at the Ministry, he'd assumed Voldemort had captured him on his way to Hogwarts. Sirius knew the castle better than practically anyone, but with Umbridge and her Inquisitorial Squad patrolling the corridors, it was only a matter of time before someone noticed him. After all, neither a giant dog nor an escaped convict were particularly discreet.

They wouldn't be able Apparate there. Harry was almost grateful, since he still wasn't sure he hadn't been splinched and left his insides in the lobby of St. Mungo's the last time.

"I've secreted a Portkey to Hogwarts at the Order headquarters in case of emergencies," said Snape. For some reason, he looked rather pleased. "It's in the drawing room."

They made their way downstairs, and Snape approached the glass-fronted cabinets that Harry and the Weasleys had gutter last summer. Only a few miscellaneous items remained, including a large glass phial, empty of anything but dust. It looked very much like the one Snape had used to collect Harry's memories of his detentions with Umbridge. Snape opened the cabinet doors.

"Potter and I will go alone."

"Won't Harry get in trouble if he's spotted at Hogwarts when he's supposed to be in hospital?" asked Lupin. He glanced at Harry and then hurried to add, "I'm not saying we should send him back, but maybe it would be best if he waited here while you searched for Sirius?"

"I may need Potter to talk some sense into Black. Assuming he has any to spare. Although it seems he does not, seeing as he hasn't put on his Invisibility Cloak yet."

Harry fumbled in the pocket of his dressing gown and pulled out the cloak. His hands were shaking, but not so badly that it was really necessary for Mrs. Weasley to take it from him and slip it around his shoulders. He thought she spent a little longer than necessary smoothing out the creases, especially considering no one could see them.

With a last glance back, Harry nodded to the Order. Then, remembering he was invisible, he muttered, "Thanks. And er, sorry for shouting."

He and Snape each touched a fingertip to the phial. A moment later, Harry found himself sprawled on the stone floor of Snape's office.

Snape hauled him up by the cloak with unerring accuracy. Without speaking, they made their way upstairs, mirroring Harry's progress through 12 Grimmauld Place. The Entrance Hall. The moving marble staircases. The Portrait of the Fat Lady.

A small group of students were crowded outside. At first Harry thought the Fat Lady must have gone to visit another portrait. Then he saw her over the heads of a few first years. She was pressed up against the edge of her frame. In the middle of the canvas was a nasty gash that looked altogether too familiar.

Harry cursed, and the first years turned around, but all they saw was Snape, so they quickly looked away again.

"Hello, Harry," said a quiet voice behind him.

Luna was looking at the Fat Lady, who was loudly declaiming, "I only go to visit Violet for a few minutes, and I come back to find my portrait defamed! If I find out a Gryffindor did this, the passwords will be in Sanskrit for a rest of the year!"

"Luna?" Harry whispered, glancing down to make sure his bare feet were hidden by the cloak. They were. "How did you know I was here?"

"On, just Professor Snape's expression," she said.

Harry turned to look at Snape, but, as usual, he had no expression.

"Alright, then." He decided to let that one go. "Look, Luna, do you know where Ron and Hermoine are? It's really impor-"

"They're in the Room of Hidden Things."

"-tant. What?"

"They're in the Room of Hidden Things."

It didn't make much more sense the second time.

"You mean the Room of Requirement?" It was the only place he could think of that fit that description. After all, he'd hidden the DA there.

"That's a very good question, Harry," said Luna, looking like a pleased teacher. "Is it still the Room of Requirement when it becomes what you require? Or is it something else because you've stopped requiring it?"

"What?" said Harry again, knowing he was starting to sound a bit desperate.

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to lead the way, Ms. Lovegood?" Snape suggested.

Luna headed up the stairs, and Harry and Snape followed. She stopped on the seventh floor, outside a door across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy teaching a Troll the _pas de poisson_.

She nodded encouragingly to Harry. He opened the door.

The room immediately reminded Harry of the Weasleys' tent, because it seemed much larger on the inside than possible. Larger than it had become when he'd asked for a safe place to practice Defense Against the Dark Arts. Larger, even, than the Great Hall. It was filled with teetering piles of Zonko's goods and broken books, scratched out notes and stained cloaks. One heap was predominately red in color and, upon closer inspection, seemed to the comprised of the singed remains of a few dozen Howlers. It was Hogwarts Lost and Never Found. It was a junk heap, but also a vault of treasures. It was, as Luna has called it, the Room of Hidden Things.

Despite his fatigue and his fear for Sirius, Harry still found himself a bit in awe.

From behind a piled of Fanged Frisbees, he heard raised voices.

"...explain, just promise you won't-"

He rounded the corner to find a frazzled looking Ron and Hermoine, but they weren't alone. Fred and George were there. So were Ginny and Neville and a girl wearing a Lockhart T-shirt with a hole in the forehead that Harry only assumed could be Gladys Gudgeon. They were all looking in the same direction. They seemed to be entreating someone, and as Harry cleared the last of the Fanged Frisbees, he saw that it was-

"Sirius!"

Harry threw himself into his godfather's arms. Sirius hugged him back, clutching at his shoulders with bony hands, holding on so tight that Harry didn't know which one of them was shaking. He was dimly aware of Snape looking pointedly in the other direction, though he wasn't sure if his Potions master was giving them a moment, or if he was just disgusted. Harry didn't care. Sirius was alright.

"Hem, hem."


End file.
